


countdown

by honeywheats



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Best Friends, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Mark Lee (NCT) is Whipped, Pining, Slice of Life, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:35:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26390515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeywheats/pseuds/honeywheats
Summary: Mark is wallflowering.It’s literally only been five minutes since you’ve arrived, but you’ve already disappeared into the darkness and glowing neon colours lighting the house. He doesn’t know how he’s quite lost you, but he considers that today would be a good day to let the cat out of the bag.He sees the scene unravelling vividly in his head: It’s 11:11pm and he’s sitting by the steps at the front porch of the house with you. As cheesy and cringeworthy as it is, it’s the best that his pea sized brain can come up with. He asks you what you’ve wished for this time, which isn’t uncommon for him to do. You’ll probably answer with something about getting accepted into the school you’ve been pining after.That’s when he’ll confess that he’s wished for the girl next to him to finally notice him. All he’s got to do now is actually find you.
Relationships: Mark Lee (NCT) & Reader, Mark Lee (NCT)/Original Female Character(s), Mark Lee (NCT)/Reader, Mark Lee (NCT)/You
Kudos: 8





	1. 2015

**_220315 [18:32]_ **

**“Is this even legal?”** Mark confirms, but he continues tearing up the slice of white bread in his hands.

“I mean- I’d sure hope so.” Your elbow is propped up on the edge of the fence, the weight of your head supported by your palm. Your other hand is flinging bread crumbs into the sparkling pond beneath you; a fish leaps straight out of the water to snatch a piece.

The wooden bridge shakes frequently as multiple joggers dash past the two of you that are standing lazily side by side.

“You know what? Hold on, I’ll just check.” Mark fishes his phone out of his pocket to make a quick Google search. You take the slice from his hands surreptitiously, attending to the eager bale of turtles. It's beautiful seeing the nest of them congregate together.

A smile makes its way onto your face when you see a baby turtle finally snatch a tiny speck of bread.

Out of the blue, Mark lets out a low _Woah_.

“Oh dude, one of the suggested searches was about eating turtles. People eat _turtles_?” His eyes go wide in wonder, before they squint in dubiety.

“Yeah, it’s probably some delicacy somewhere.”

“Hm. Anyway, it’s technically legal, but it’s not great for the turtles. Can’t digest it properly, or something.” He inhales sharply through gritted teeth, and your hands freeze in alarm. You turn towards him.

“Shit.”

“Shit, indeed, _turtle murderer._ ” Mark raises his hands in defense, taking a slight step away from you.

You smack his shoulder.

“Ow!”

* * *

**_100915 [21:47]_ **

**The coach is speeding through the highway and into the night.** Darkness shrouds the bus almost completely, forbye the tiny, irregular blankets of yellow light emitted by the passing street lamps.

You’d expect a bunch of teenagers to be fatigued and crashed, especially after an intense afternoon rehearsal in the scorching sun, and a parade that started right when sun started to retreat.

They’re not.

The only thing you can make out in the sea of noise is the boosted bass of _Uptown Funk_ , and the shrill singing of the percussionists in the party rear of the bus.

It’s the first time you’ve ever been on the same band bus as Mark since you’re usually separated into brass and wind players. Today, however, you’re with the rest of your cohort- hence you take the opportunity to sit with your _favourite_ flute player.

The blasted breeze from the air-conditioning is penetrating through your skin easily, especially when you’re clad in a dri-fit shirt drenched in your perspiration. A shiver runs down your spine and you shudder slightly. Mark catches this and shuts the overhead vent.

“You good?” His voice cracks. You can’t help but chuckle softly at him.

“Mhm. Thanks.” You heave an exasperated sigh, crashing your skull backwards into the plush headrest.

Mark’s running his mouth with his laments as he taps his fingernails on the metal wall of the bus. He gazes at the black sky looming over the road.

“Yo, our dressing looked like absolute shit today,” he cringes, “ _Damn trumpets_.” You can only hum in agreement, your slumpy eyelids drooping in somnolence.

“Dude, I’m already _mad_ tired from today, and there’s still another performance next Saturday, isn’t there?” There’s a sudden weight pressing into his shoulder.

“Y/N?” He whips his head around, sporting a quizzical look as he probes at your cheek with his index finger. You nuzzle your head further into the crook of his neck.

Blood rushes to Mark’s face, rendering his defined cheeks bright red. It feels like warmth is swallowing him whole- the heat won’t dissipate no matter how fervently he fans and taps at his visage.

_It’s too hot. (Hot damn.)_


	2. 2016

_**150216 [14:09]** _

**“If I have to deal with even _one_ more Karen today,”** you propose, “I’ll quit this job. I swear.” You’re slumping down into a foldable plastic chair in the break room.

Mark bursts into tiny giggles. “That’s what you get for working in a café right outside the CBD,” 

Your weight pulls you further down, and you rest your head on the tip of the chair, staring straight at the blank, white ceiling. You groan, and bring your fingertips to your temples, massaging them harshly in circles. 

In a split second, you sit up, dead-panning to your best friend, “Okay, fair point, but I actually really need this coin, and who on _earth_ drinks their coffee boiling hot?” He props his arm up on the desk behind him to carry the weight of his head as he witnesses the rage in you unravel.

“God, okay, she came up to me all frowny and shit, like, _“Aren’t drinks like this served warm?”_ right,” Mark snorts at your high-pitched, clipped impersonation.

“So, okay, I redid it, even though I literally just finished making the other a minute ago, and steamed the milk for like 15 seconds longer, so it should probably be piping hot by then, but she comes back going, _“Sorry, do you not understand what warm is?”_ even though I _swear_ , holding that cappuccino in a ceramic mug nearly burnt my hands.” The words shoot out of your mouth like bullets, your anger-laced voice ricocheting off the walls. You’re frowning into space incredulously, eyes squinted in unadulterated indignation. 

He can’t help the small grin that’s etching onto his face in amusement. Mark lets out a soft _‘Mhm,’_ to probe further, his eyes fixated on you.

Your hands flail in wild gesture as you continue, “And then, she goes on to complain about the standard of our service and how our coffee doesn’t live up to its price- which- what the fuck? Her cappuccino was literally four dollars.” 

“Dude- maybe you just really suck at making coffee.” Mark’s chuckling, his free hand rubbing at his eyes as he stifles a yawn. You hitch a gasp.

“How _dare_ you, my coffee’s great.” You’re defending yourself in disbelief, just as duty calls in the form of the chiming bell at the counter.

“Ugh. It’s probably another Karen.” Your face sourly scrunches up as you will yourself to carry your body back outside.

It wasn’t another Karen.

Standing before the counter is the handsome, tall figure that you’ve seen frequenting the café the past six months that you’ve been working here. Said man often orders an iced caramel latte, and then dives straight for the table in the corner to set-up his working space for the next three, plodding hours. Currently, he’s biting his lip as if in thought, eyes darting nervously around the room. His eyes light up when he sees you approach the counter.

“Hi, I’d like to apply for the Part-time Job offer?”

* * *

_**190316 [21:25]** _

**“Rock, scissors, paper, shoot.”** The new part-timer, whose name you’ve learnt is Johnny, and is merely a year older than you and Mark, outstretches his palm to play paper, before he victoriously brings his hands into a pulsating clap. Honestly, you’re amazed at how swiftly he weaved himself with you and Mark- he fits perfectly into the shoes of a third musketeer. You find out that he’s even from the same high school, and find him tailing around you and Mark around the clock.

It’s a little over nine in the evening; the café’s longing to be closed, and you’re now trying to decide who gets to choose their share of leftover pastries first.

“Suck it. I’m taking all the chocolate croissants tonight.” Johnny proclaims smugly, as Mark contrastingly lets out an exasperated sigh.

“Dammit- I swear, ever since he joined, I’ve just been losing all the bets.” You’re sulking, too. You’ve been violently craving for one of the iconic pain au chocolats all day, and there were three perfect pastries sitting snugly in the glass display.

“Not my problem.” Johnny chuckles, “Okay- now let’s do one for clean-up. Rock, scissors, paper, shoot.” 

“Aw, man!” Mark’s voice is on the verge of cracking with how high-pitched his outcry is.

“Have fun, guys.” You tease, crashing into one of the lounge chairs by the entrance and whipping your phone out as your friends begrudgingly disperse to begin their mandated routine. Johnny disappears into the break room, perhaps to grab his phone.

“Shit.” The illuminated screen before your eyes elicits the expletive from your lips. There’s a screenshot in a private message from your manager, displaying an email of complaint. You haven’t seen the email itself- all that captures your attention is your manager’s text.

_Tiffany (groundup), [2120]: ...following this, we are considering terminating your employment given the results of the customer’s test._

A chill runs down your spine as your shaking fingers click to expand the image.

_Name: Diana_

_Contact number: 8057 9387_

_Comment: Saw a lady (teenager?) at the counter trying to clean the cake display today as I was queuing- she was using a paper towel and she dropped it on the ground, only to pick it up and continue. I ordered a muffin while my son ordered a slice of cheesecake and an iced milk tea- he’s now experiencing terrible stomach pains and I cannot help but wonder if this is a question of hygiene and sanitation. Now at the doctor’s to find out if he’s got a stomach virus. Please ensure that your staff practise basic hygiene. I am currently considering filing for personal injury._

Your heart stops. Holy shit. You gave a kid food poisoning. Do people die from contaminated food? Is this Salmonella? No it’s not, that’s a stupid question, what the-

“Fuck.” You cry out, and Mark perks up from behind the counter. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh my God. I gave a kid food poisoning.” Your blood runs cold as trepidation eats at you as you cringing further into the crevice of the seat- the waterworks in your eyes threatening to burst at any given moment. There’s an attached photo of a pixelated surveillance screen. You make yourself out in the scintillating red, green and blue dots, crouching on the ground as you hold up a paper towel to the display. The anxiety catches up with you, and a sob escapes from your lips. You bury your face into your hands.

Mark’s rapid footsteps are approaching. “Woah, what?”

You shove your iPhone at him when you feel him looming over you. His other hand instinctively goes up to your hair to run his fingers through it, as his eyes skim the text. He huffs out an exhale. “Yeesh.”

“Okay. Woah. Hey- we don’t know that it’s actually because of that, right? I ate a slice an hour ago too!” Mark’s trying his best to calm you- he’s now seated on the armrest of the chair and easing you into him, still playing with your hair.

He balances your head upon his thigh, as you continue to wail on. “The kid could _die_ or something. It-It’s as if he licked the germs off the ground,” you stammer. Mark feels your tears dampening his bleached blue jeans, but this is the least of his concerns right now.

“No, I really doubt he could, man. We don’t know how bad it is, Y/N, he could be fine now.” Mark soothes, and he starts rubbing slow circles into your back. 

“What’s wrong?” Johnny’s back and he whispers, as Mark passes your phone to him. He takes his time to read the messages, but offers only a questioning look on his face.

“Well….what’s wrong with it? She did text back to say he's just lactose intolerant.” Johnny’s genuinely perplexed by catharsis powered meltdown right now.

“W-what?” You croak out, and raise your hand out for your phone. “Don’t kid me right now. It’s n-not funny.” 

_Tiffany (groundup), [2129]: Apologies, please disregard my previous message. The customer got back to us to tell us that she discovered her son is lactose intolerant. However, it is important that you remember that this is basic hygiene._

You slam your phone face down into the plush chair repeatedly, tears of relief now streaming down your cheeks. You shut your eyes, lamenting, “This is s-so stupid.” 

“Tsk. See? I-” Mark squeezes your shoulder in comfort.

“Don’t pull an _‘I told you so,’_ on me.” You smack his knee. “That was traumatising.”


	3. 2017

**_040617 [16:03]_ **

“You know, I’m starting to feel like I should’ve given more shifts this week. I’ve got too much time on my hands, and too little things to do.” Mark’s head is hanging off the longer edge of his bed, his feet clad in Pikachu socks propped up on the wall as his finger continues to scroll miles on his Instagram feed.

“I mean….we’ve got band, I _guess_ ,” his voice cracks, “but other than that, I’m bored out of my mind.” 

The television in the room is buzzing away unattended, Johnny silently plucking at the strings of Mark’s guitar to the tune of SHINee’s View, as he looks over at the both of you from Mark’s swivel chair.

You’re laying right beside Mark, his posture copied to a T, your hair centimetres away from touching the ground. You’re quietly chuckling at the high-pitch his voice rose to, as you hum, “Honestly, me too.” You lock your phone and slam it into the plush of his bed. “There’s nothing to do, nowhere to go…Oh my god, the other night, I went to bed at like eight?”

The guitar strumming comes to a halt. 

“Woah, _what_? Damn.” Johnny swivels over to both of you before continuing, “Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask- my friend’s got a random summer party tomorrow night. You could come, I guess.”

The word _party_ causes both you and Mark’s ears to perk up in alarm- you turn to one another, eyes blown wide open, and snort. In your entire high school experience, you’ve both gone for a grand total of _one_ party- it was at Lucas’ place, and it convinced you both never to step foot in another ever again. You shudder at the recollection- _we don’t speak of what went down there._

“Yeah, well, it’s fine. Not happening.” Mark diverts his attention back to his phone, and decides to scroll through YouTube now, desperately looking for something to stimulate his brain. “I’ve been dreading the day you suggest this.”

“Oh, come on, it isn’t as bad as you think.”

You bring your hands to your face to rub at your eyes. “It’s a bunch of people floating around in a house that reeks of alcohol and vomit. Who’s this friend again? Wait- don’t tell me he’s a rugby friend. Please, no. No thanks.”

“You’ve been cooped up for too-”

“ _Noooo_.” You and Mark groan in monotone unison, frowning at the upside down man that’s pouting at you both, who continues to pluck away at the thin metal wires, drumming at the wooden body every other beat.

“Please? It’s better than doing nothing. Or finishing your Sudoku book.” 

“I’ll have you know that Sudoku would be far more interesting than your party.” You snap.

Johnny hesitates to begin speaking. “Okay- I promise. We’ll get there, and if you don’t like it, we can leave, and I’ll treat you both to IHOP, or something, I don’t know. Just try this once.” You’ve really got to give credit where it’s due- he’s trying his best to get you both to come. He _never_ offers to buy you food- you bite your lip and ponder at the tantalising mention of IHOP.

You let out a sigh and turn to Mark, elbowing him to get his attention. He makes a face of dread and consideration, shrugging, and you mirror the look on his visage, eyes scrunched up in doubt. 

The guitar strumming comes to a halt once more.

“So you in?”

* * *

**_050617 [22:38]_ **

Mark is wallflowering. **  
**

It’s _literally_ only been five minutes since you’ve arrived, but you’ve already disappeared into the darkness and glowing neon colours lighting the house. He doesn’t know how he’s quite lost you, but he considers that today would be a good day to let the cat out of the bag.

He sees the scene unravelling vividly in his head: It’s 11:11pm and he’s sitting by the steps at the front porch of the house with you. As cheesy and _disgustingly_ cringeworthy as it is, it’s the best that his pea sized brain can come up with. He asks you what you’ve wished for this time, which isn’t uncommon for him to do. You’ll probably answer with something about getting accepted into the school you’ve been pining after. 

That’s when he’ll confess that he’s wished for the girl next to him to finally notice him. All he’s got to do now is actually _find_ you. He knows your phone is probably on silent, as it always is- he doesn’t understand why- but tries to contact you anyways.

 _mark 👹, [2256]: y/n wru  
  
_ _mark 👹, [2256]: did u both DITCH me already…..  
  
_ _mark 👹, [2257]: Missed Call (3)  
  
mark 👹, [2257]: if yall already went to get ihop… gna kill yall  
  
_ _mark 👹, [2257]: y/n  
  
_ _mark 👹, [2257]: helllooooo?  
  
_ _mark 👹, [2257]: y/n  
  
_ _mark 👹, [2257]: where r  
  
_ _mark 👹, [2257]: u_

Mark takes a detour into the kitchen to grab a glass of water, wiping his clammy hands on the back of his jeans. The sight before him forms a gargantuan lump in his throat, and he swallows it down in chagrin, before it encompasses him first. 

You’re there, alright. Mark can’t tear his doe-like eyes away from you although he probably should, because what he’s seeing is ripping his heart straight out of his chest and stabbing it violently.

You’re sat on the kitchen island, lips locked with Johnny’s, arms intertwined around his neck.

He’s not so sure if he still wants to get IHOP afterwards.


End file.
